


The Vampire in 221B

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, Gen, Vampires, not actually slash but feel free to wear those goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.  There’s a vampire in 221B, and he’s hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vampire in 221B

**Author's Note:**

> Not actually slash, but feel free to wear those goggles. Many thanks to kizzia and earlgreytea68 for the beta and Brit-pick; also thanks to my LJ flist for listening to me whine and complain on a semi-regular basis. Bonus points if you catch the Buffy reference. Happy Halloween!

It was nearly noon, not that anyone could tell with the sun firmly tucked behind the thick cloud cover over London. Late February, of course, one could hardly expect any different, but when John woke, he was almost afraid he’d slept the day away. To learn that he’d only lost the morning was a relief. 

“Christ,” he muttered to himself, running his hand through his hair, and then said it again, just to feel the still-pleasant roll of his tongue. “ _Christ_.” 

The flat was quiet. Sherlock was on the couch, wrapped up in his dressing gown, clearly working his way through a massive, glorious sulk with his back to the world. “Morning,” said John, and heard only a grunt in reply. John rolled his eyes. Sulking that the case he’d solved the night before was over, no doubt. Already hoping for another murder. 

“It’s past noon.” 

“Two minutes past,” said John as he went into the kitchen. 

“I need another murder. John, get me a murder.” 

“I’m hardly a delivery service, Sherlock.” 

“What use are you if not to find me a murder?” complained Sherlock. “Are you making tea?” 

“I was considering it, yes.” 

Silence – the pregnant sort, where plenty was left unsaid. 

“Yes, of course, Sherlock, I’d be happy to make you a cup of tea,” said John dryly. “But you’re on your own for the murder.” 

Sherlock snorted into the couch, and then after a moment, reached one long, pale arm to the floor where the newspaper lay in a heap. John listened to the paper rustle and Sherlock studied it, but was fairly confident that Sherlock wouldn’t find anything in the advice columns to interest him. He filled the kettle with water, set it to boil, and then looked in the refrigerator. 

He slammed it closed a moment later. “We’re out of blood,” he said, voice dripping with annoyance. “ _And_ milk. Sherlock! _Sherlock_.” 

Sherlock twisted just enough to look at John. 

“We’re out of blood. _Again_.” 

“Are we?” asked Sherlock innocently. 

“You’d think you’d keep better track of this,” John scolded him. 

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock, and turned back to his contemplation of the advice columns. “Text Molly.” 

John sighed heavily. “Molly isn’t a blood bank, Sherlock.” 

“Then text Mike.” 

“You’re missing the point. It’s not Mike’s responsibility—” 

“Then go and _purchase_ it, if you’re going to just go on nattering about it,” snapped Sherlock. “If it’s not Mike’s responsibility, I hardly see how it should be _mine_.” 

“Because…” John threw his hands in the air. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll just pop around to the shops and see if they stock any O neg. Back in a mo, don’t mind me.” 

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs to the ground. “If you’re going, do you mind picking up a package of rice? One of every type. There was a murder in Chinatown three weeks ago, I don’t know why you didn’t bring this to my attention before now.” 

“You got that from the _advice_ columns?” 

“Is the general population so utterly blind that they couldn’t see it for themselves? Never mind, don’t answer that, of course they are. _Rice_ , John! A man’s life depends on it.” 

John slammed the door behind him. 

* 

Tesco’s was out of blood. Waitrose only had B positive in stock, and the only vampire John had met who liked the stuff also listened to boy bands in her spare time. Unnaturally sweet, thick, gloopy stuff – both the music and the blood. 

John pulled his hat down over his head, glanced at the threatening sky nervously, and kept going. Despite the clouds, the day still seemed too bright; he should have brought sunglasses. And how strange would _that_ have looked. 

“Out of blood again?” asked Abdul at the off-license on the corner, sympathetic and kind. 

“Yeah,” admitted John, and tried not to look Abdul in the eyes. He liked Abdul, it wasn’t Abdul’s fault that looking at him and hearing the cadence of his voice brought back bad memories of Afghanistan. Christ, Abdul wasn’t even _Afghani_ , he was from Lahore, lived in London fifteen years, perfectly nice fellow who rooted for Man U and had a fascination with the Queen’s hats. Admittedly the hat fetish was a bit odd, but there were worse things, John supposed. 

Abdul rooted around under the counter for a few moments before he dropped a shelf-stable UHT box of blood on the counter. “A neg,” he said proudly. “For only my favorite customers.” 

John breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re a life-saver, Abdul.” 

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Abdul dryly, and John snorted. 

“Oh, nearly forgot – Sherlock wanted rice?” 

“Chinatown?” 

Did _everyone_ find murders in the advice columns? “Yes…” 

“Along the back.” 

Five different kinds of rice – not as many as he’d find at an actual grocery, but John wasn’t about to go wandering around London for Sherlock’s experiments, not when he hadn’t had a chance for breakfast. He noted the cereals on his way back up to the counter, and managed to tuck a box of Weetabix under his arm along the way. 

Abdul rang up the purchases, packaged them neatly in a bag, and John headed back home. His stomach growled the entire way. 

Sherlock, of course, hadn’t moved from the sofa. 

“Find something suitable?” 

Sulking still, of course. John didn’t answer. Instead he set the kettle to boil again, and poured out a bowl of the Weetabix. The bottle of blood sat innocently on the table. 

Still out of milk. Bollocks. John sighed, and didn’t bother to pour out a second bowl. He’d just have to go without. 

“A neg,” said Sherlock dismissively, leading against the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. “Is that all they had?” 

“Yes,” said John shortly. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” 

“Hardly begging. You could call Mike.” 

“I’m not calling Mike.” 

“Or Molly. Or Mycroft. I’m sure Mycroft has a bumper supply of every blood type known to man and vampire. Probably enough AB pos to drown a horse. Or turn one into a vampire.” 

“Sherlock,” warned John. The kettle clicked off, and John poured the water into the teacups. The bag floated in the water until he shoved them back down with the spoon. 

“Patience, John,” said Sherlock, and John resisted the urge to throttle him. 

“Some of us haven’t had breakfast, you know.” 

“Hardly _my_ fault.” 

“I asked you yesterday, did we have any blood laid in. You said yes. I looked in the fridge this morning, no blood. Honestly, Sherlock. I don’t know what you’re playing at—” 

Sherlock was a warm weight against his back. John could feel his breath against the nape of his neck. “Don’t you?” murmured Sherlock into his ear, and John closed his eyes. He gripped the edge of the counter and let out a shaking breath. 

“Could you…just… _not_?” 

Sherlock reached around John, picked up one of the cups of tea, and moved away. John instinctively rocked backwards, as if his body was trying to follow, and it took several tries before he could manage to swallow. His mouth and throat felt especially dry. 

_Boundaries_ , he reminded himself. _There are boundaries, and we both agreed to them. Don’t back down now, Watson._

“I forgot milk,” he said, listening to footsteps on the wooden floor, the scrape of a chair, the rustle of fabric, the clink of china. 

“No matter,” said Sherlock. John could barely hear him over the noise: cars on Baker Street, birds in Regent’s Park, a plane flying overhead. 

John stomach rumbled. He opened his eyes and stared at the tea he’d poured for himself, more out of habit than anything else. Even empty, his stomach was turning as he looked at it. 

“I used to like the smell of tea in the mornings,” he said wistfully. 

“It’s not morning,” said Sherlock. 

“I used to like _mornings_.” 

Sherlock said nothing. He turned a page of the newspaper, and drank his tea. He frowned at the cup momentarily, as if considering its flavor, and then took another cautious sip. 

John sighed and reached for the box of blood, popping it open smoothly before pouring it over the Weetabix. 

“I don’t understand why anyone would consider that to be _edible_ ,” said Sherlock. “Not when there’s a fresh supply.” 

“No, Sherlock,” said John firmly. 

“But—” 

“My choice,” said John. “Not yours.” 

Sherlock sulked even louder. 

John carried the bowl of cereal over to the table and set it down. The ceramic clicked on the wooden top, and John sighed as he looked at it. 

“Have you ever?” asked Sherlock abruptly. 

“Of course not!” 

“I understand the sensation is incredible. Painful at first, if not done well, but then afterwards, a sort of floating, carefree existence…” 

John groaned. “You _researched_ this?” 

“The internet, John. Apart from the vampire porn websites, there are plenty of excellent resources on those who wish to be bitten. You should look into them.” 

“I’ll pass.” 

“Even the porn was informative,” mused Sherlock. 

“Leave it, Sherlock,” said John shortly. “Just…leave it.” 

Sherlock set down the newspaper. “What are you afraid of? It isn’t as though either of us would be in danger. I’m talking small amounts, little sips – nothing more. Nothing that a quick nap and maybe a B12 vitamin wouldn’t repair. The sensation of having one’s blood drunk – it’s meant to be euphoric. Orgasmic, even, but that could just be the porn sites’ interpretations. Better than chocolate, better than sex – better than cocaine—” 

John slammed his hand down on the table. “Don’t bring your addictions into this argument, Sherlock. This has _nothing_ to do with you.” 

“Doesn’t it? It’s _me_ you’re rejecting.” 

“I’m not rejecting you!” shouted John. A blink, and a crash – and the table was on its side in the lounge, John standing behind it. Shards of broken ceramic stuck up like shards of bone in the puddle of Weetabix and blood on the floor. 

“Bollocks,” groaned John, and leaned down to pick up the mess. “No, Sherlock, don’t touch it, you’ll cut yourself—” 

“No, I won’t—” 

The soft hiss of Sherlock’s breath was louder than a beacon, as was his right hand instantly grasping his left. 

John loomed over Sherlock, so close he could feel the heat rising from Sherlock’s skin. He blinked, uncertain at first how he got there ( _wasn’t he on the other side of the room?_ ) and when he looked down at Sherlock kneeling at his feet, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, John’s nostrils twitched. 

“John,” breathed Sherlock, and he stood, slowly, so slowly, the way Sherlock always moved, slow slow slow slow slow. “You’re a doctor, John. A _doctor_.” 

John heard himself speak as if hearing a memory. “I was. Yes.” 

“You’re a _doctor_ ,” repeated Sherlock, as John took his wrist, pulled it away from the safety of his chest. 

John knew. Of course he knew, like he knew that the distal, middle, and proximal phalanges connected to the metacarpal bones, metacarpals to the capstate, hamate, trapezoid, trapezium. John turned the palm of Sherlock’s hand up, slowly uncurled the tendons of his flexor digitorum until his fingers were only gently curled, his palm a shallow bowl, holding in the copper-scented blood. ( _Flever digiti minimi brevis, flexor policts brevis_.) 

John lifted the entire mess to his lips, and pressed it to his mouth and tongue. He barely heard Sherlock’s sharp inhale; his mouth was flooded with the rich-wine-salt-chocolate taste of Sherlock’s blood, sliding around his teeth, over his tongue, down the back of his throat. John’s teeth grazed against Sherlock’s skin, where his tongue pressed against the sinews and lines of his hand. Sherlock’s fingers curled against John’s cheeks, tickling the over-sensitive skin, brushing along the fine stubble – a loving, trembling kind of caress, and John pressed Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, wanting to shove it in, crack the bones and break it off at the wrist, drown himself in the flow of blo— 

_No._

John wrenched Sherlock’s hand from his mouth, told himself to let go of him. And stared as his hands refused to comply. Sherlock’s wrist stayed firmly in John’s grasp, and John tried to blink away the blood lust, tried to shake it off, tried to clamp his mouth shut against the desire to _consume_ , and instead, only bit his tongue on his descended fangs. 

“ _Ow_ ,” he hissed, wincing. 

“Are you all right?” asked Sherlock. 

“Am I…?” John opened his eyes, wondering, and stared at Sherlock, whose pupils were blown, cheeks flushed, lips parted and wet, as if he’d been licking them as John…as John had…. 

“You bit yourself, likely on your vampiric canines,” said Sherlock, and John hissed and pulled him closer. 

“Do you know what the smell does to me, Sherlock? The smell of fresh blood coursing from veins, dripping onto living skin, sliding down around your curves and angles like the fingers of a lover? It makes me _hungry_ , Sherlock. It makes me want to take you and strip you down, lick up every tendril of blood until you’re wet from head to toe. I want to drink every last drop of you, Sherlock, I want to drink and drink until you’re dry, drink until there’s nothing left of you.” 

“So do it,” said Sherlock, his voice strained and calm all at once. 

John groaned. “There _wouldn’t_ be anything left of you, Sherlock. Don’t you get it? Can’t you shove this into your impossibly intelligent skull that I’m new? I’m fucking new, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from _killing_ you.” 

“John,” he said, so slow, so impossibly fucking slow, “you’re a _doctor_.” 

“That doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing!” 

“I trust you.” 

“You…” John closed his eyes. “Brilliant. That’s just… _brilliant_ , Sherlock. It can’t happen, Sherlock. It won’t ever happen.” 

Sherlock swallowed. It was lovely; John stared at his throat, the pulse point there, throbbing and undulating and alive: a living, beckoning thing. 

“If you can’t trust in yourself,” said Sherlock, and his voice was rich and dark and delicious, like the best sort of thick burgundy roasted chocolate blood running slow along a spoon, “trust in me, John. Trust _me_.” 

“Oh, Christ,” said John, and it _burned_ now, saying it, and fire flared in his mouth and along his tongue, flashed through his veins and he couldn’t help himself. Not when cool relief willingly offered himself up, wrapped in a soft blue dressing gown and silky, curly hair, pale blue eyes and pock-marked skin that might as well have been flawless for how much John had come to desire it. 

Sherlock’s skin was salty caramel thin wrapping-paper parchment, and John was blinded to everything but the taste of it under his tongue. Dimly, he heard Sherlock’s gasp as his teeth tore into him, felt Sherlock melt under his fingers, curl himself around John. 

Sherlock filled his mouth, his nose, his body. He was drowning in a sea of Sherlock, surrounded and boarded and plundered. He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in every pulse, every surge of blood into his waiting mouth, felt Sherlock heavy against his skin, his hands hold tight to him, pulling, pushing – his voice, a gurgle, a moan, a gasping cry, for help… 

John felt Sherlock’s fingers tighten as everything sped up, everything surged faster, everything reaching a blinding race of color and flavor and pushing quicker faster faster oh god yes yes more and Sherlock and…. 

John released Sherlock’s skin with a pop, head spinning. His fingers tingled, he quivered and shook on the hard surface of the floor, Sherlock half under him, half in his lap, eyes closed, breath shallow. His shirt had been torn open, the wound just below his clavicle red and raw, gaping and ugly and somehow, even in his sated state, still alluring and the most delicious thing John had seen. John could almost see the blood surging as Sherlock’s heart continued to pump— 

_Sherlock’s heart_. 

Oh, God. 

Oh, God, _please_. 

“No, no no no no,” moaned John, slowly coming to himself, the blood lust ebbing away along with the thin trickle of blood down Sherlock’s skin, running through the chest hair. John pulled Sherlock to him again, but this time to listen for the soft beating of his heart, and felt Sherlock’s breath against his hair. “God, no, please, live, Sherlock, damn you, _damn you, live_.” 

Slow, slow, why was time always so slow? It was years before Sherlock lifted his hand, rested it on John’s head. “You see,” said Sherlock, his voice breathy and tired. “You see.” 

“See what, you bleeding idiot?” groaned John, and he scrambled off Sherlock, and reached for the blanket on the sofa to drape over him. “You’re freezing. I took too much.” 

“No.” 

“Shut up, you’re hysterical,” snapped John, his voice unnaturally high. He got to his feet, slightly unsteady, a bit woozy from being properly full for the first time in…ever, really. It took a moment to stabilize himself, and then he went straight for the first aid kit in the lavatory. 

He saw himself in the mirror for a moment, and as always now, did a double-take with what he saw looking back at him. But not because he didn’t recognize the face looking back – but now, because he did. 

His cheeks were flushed; his skin was pink. His eyes were bright and blue. His hair, which that morning had still been thin and lackluster, was somehow full and shining. His lips were tinged a bit red, and when John licked them, he could still taste Sherlock’s blood, the faint salt and cinnamon flavor, but instead of hunger, all he felt now was the satisfaction that came with having had a truly excellent meal. 

“Hullo,” said John to himself, might have stayed there for hours, staring at the familiar face, before finally turning away to return to Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but his breaths were even. John’s hands didn’t tremble as he bandaged the wound on his chest. 

“Thought your saliva was a coagulant,” said Sherlock after a moment. 

“Not for a wound this serious,” said John. “And shut up, you’re meant to stay still.” 

“I _am_ staying still.” 

“No, you’re talking.” 

“I can talk and stay still.” 

“Not really, no.” 

“You’re rather dominant when you’re satiated. Did you know that? Is that a trait common to most vampires?” 

John scowled. 

“You’re rather dominant when you’re hungry, too. Perhaps it’s just you.” 

John pressed the tape around Sherlock’s bandages, and Sherlock let out a pained hiss. John offered Sherlock his hand, and Sherlock took it, sitting up gingerly, carefully arranging his limbs as if he was sore. 

“Well,” said Sherlock, in an attempt to be bright. “That was an interesting experience.” 

John rolled his eyes. 

“Hand me my mobile?” And Sherlock stretched out his hand and waited. 

“You can’t honestly expect—” 

“Oh, John,” said Sherlock, deadpan, “here I sit in my weakened state, drained of blood and shaking, unable to sit without assistance, and all I ask is one small favor…” 

“It’s on the table next to you, you berk!” 

Sherlock made a beleaguered, exhausted sigh, and John knocked the mobile onto his lap. Sherlock snatched it up and began to type out a text. 

“We must do that again, John,” said Sherlock as he typed. “Two cases – _two_! – which Lestrade had previously been convinced were unsolvable. I should have seen it before – so obvious – dust on the _mantelpiece_.” 

John’s mouth dropped open. “You’re – _what_?” 

“It’s not quite the same as the cocaine – after all, the chemically-induced high lasts a great deal longer; I think you were only drinking from me for five minutes at the most – but the clarity achieved in that five minutes certainly compensates for the lack of time within it. Ah! Of course! There was a spot of paint on her _shoe_ ….” 

And Sherlock was typing madly on his phone again, perched on his chair, hunched over like some demented gargoyle. 

John shook his head slowly. “You….you honestly are telling me you want that to happen _again_?” 

Sherlock looked up, somewhat surprised. “Don’t you?” 

“Sherlock, I nearly _killed_ you.” 

Sherlock waved his hand. “Inconsequential.” 

“ _Inconsequential_?!?!” 

“I suppose you could always turn me, if that should happen. But it won’t. You know when to stop.” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“Clearly, you do, or I wouldn’t be sitting here. _Sitting_!” Sherlock chortled in glee as another deduction struck him, and he was back on his mobile, typing again. “I recant what I said earlier, John. Actual drinking may have only been five minutes in duration, but the after-effects are clearly long-lasting. I trust you are satiated for the moment? I’d like to see how long this will last.” 

John left the room, and went back into the lavatory to put the medical kit away. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. 

His reflection, flushed and full and far too innocent for how he actually felt, looked back. That’s what he’d looked like just a year ago, before he’d been bitten, before his body had started to incorporate the vampiric virus, changing his appetite, his vision, his hearing, his…everything. He’d been young and hale and hearty and handsome. _Handsome_. John almost scoffed at the word, but he stared at the image for a long moment, wondered how many years it would be before it faded away – either the memory of his mortal life, or the reflection in the mirror. Ten? Twenty? 

When he returned to the lounge, Sherlock was still typing away, madly muttering to himself, almost gleeful. 

“Sherlock,” said John. As he spoke, all the flavors of Sherlock came alive in his mouth, and he could taste the bits of him left behind between his teeth. 

John wasn’t particularly thirsty anymore, but oh – did those bits taste delicious. Much better than the bottled stuff. 

It didn’t matter. _It didn’t matter._

“We aren’t doing this again.” 

“Tiresome,” said Sherlock, and he looked up from his mobile. The blue light shone on his face, making odd patterns out of his hollowed cheeks and high bone structure, the deep recess of his eyes and the dark fall of hair above. “Don’t be tiresome, John.” 

“We’re not,” insisted John. “I won’t put your life in any more danger than it already is. That’s the last time I drink from you, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, John,” said Sherlock. His grin was nearly feral, and John’s breath caught with something he hadn’t felt since the night he was turned. 

_Fear_. 

“John,” said Sherlock. “You don’t really believe that – do you?”


End file.
